


Attention to Detail

by PastyPirate



Series: Scenes from a pair of Bakeries [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Baking, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Cuddling, Developing Relationship, Flirting, Joe's hat, M/M, Nicky wearing Joe's hat, They're both really good bakers okay, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, and like rough sex, early established relationship, just flirting, lots of references to sex, past sex and current sex, references to sleepy morning sex, references to vers, smutty sequel, talking about baking as a seduction tool, they dont know they're in love but we know and that's all that matters, which they both like better than the other's rough puff pastry recipe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26664709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastyPirate/pseuds/PastyPirate
Summary: “Ask me, you know you want to.” Nicky said.And Joe did, he desperately wanted to.“Would you mind helping me for a bit?” Joe said, gesturing towards the ingredients ready to be molded into Baklawa.“Not at all,” Nicky said, crossing the threshold and shrugging off his rain jacket. “All that stands between you and the universe’s ire these days seems to be me.”“That’s a cruel thing to say while you’re taking off your shirt.”In which: dating a world renowned baker does come with some unexpected pros.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Scenes from a pair of Bakeries [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940119
Comments: 102
Kudos: 659





	Attention to Detail

Joe couldn’t pin where the day went wrong. 

It certainly wasn’t when he woke up, slightly drooling on Nicky’s back, in his oddly pristine apartment. Nor was it when he was kneading dough and swapping improbable football feats with Booker. Serving customers amongst the crisp clean lines of _Joe’s_ was always a delight. 

No. It’s when his business line rang right when Booker’s cell rang. 

He should’ve let his phone go to voicemail, wait for Booker to tell him that Son Number Two (whose name he never quite caught because Booker always called him, _the little guy_ ) was at the hospital. Then he could’ve checked his voicemail and heard the request from the stressed bride. In this perfect world he’d call up the bride and tell her _Sorry I can’t do last minute orders. Let’s see if we can figure something out - my assistant isn’t in today._

But no. He turned with a smile to tell Booker about the nicely sized order increase that just came through, as Booker was already pulling on his coat and trying to say what happened. Slipping into tattered French as he did so. Joe gave him cab money and rushed him out the door, promising that he would just tell everyone the espresso machine was broken. 

Joe didn’t call the bride back, he just got to work, after all he already had everything. He didn’t know yet that it was a mistake. Then the AC went out because the cheap landlord still hadn’t gotten all the electrical wiring fixed after the storm. The heat from the ovens made the kitchen close to hell. In a delicate balance between closing the door (and risking passing out from the heat) and keeping the door open (ruining the pastries) he very nearly chose the first option. He propped open the door using an old screwdriver but the sound of the rain slapping against the asphalt made him want to pee. After the third trip to the bathroom he tucked headphones into his ears and listened to Anderson .Paak until he felt the beginnings of a headache forming at his temples. He tried to switch to mellower music but that just made him yawn. The only good moment had been when Booker texted him that his son was okay. 

He was only halfway through making the Kaak Warka when he realized he had to prep the next round of filo dough for the Baklawa. He dropped his head back and let out a groan. He was going to be here all _night_ and -

Movement in the doorway caught his attention, turned, dropping his ear near his shoulder with what he hoped was a teasing glare. 

“Trying to steal my recipes?” He asked Nicky. 

Nicky tucked his hands in his jeans pocket, distorting the button up shirt he wore as the rain slid down his coat. He gave Joe one of his tiny grins that Joe was beginning to dream about. 

“Like I need them, no. I was just wondering what you were doing here when you were bragging about being able to go home and watch the game while I’d be stuck at dinner.” 

Joe sighed, devastated. He forgot about the damn game. 

“You don’t even like football,” Joe pointed out, taking a step away from his creations. He needed a slight break, maybe he could talk Nicky into having a quick necking session in the alley. He shifted his baseball cap on his head, resettling it over his curls. 

“What’s all this then?” Nicky asked, nodding his head towards all the bowls and ingredients that had spread like a small tornado had gone through Joe’s Kitchen. 

Joe walked over to the doorway, feeling the refreshing coolness coming from the rain. Nicky wrapped a hand around his apron strap, pulling him for a quick kiss. Joe could feel some of the tension in his head seep away. 

“There’s a wedding tomorrow that I made the cake and desserts for. Last minute they decided to add a couple things which I thought would be no problem,” he shook his head, “the universe disagreed.” 

If Joe was Nicky, he would’ve teased Joe more. But since Nicky was Nicky he just nodded, looking past Joe’s shoulder. 

“Booker couldn’t help?” 

“Family emergency,” Joe said, a timer dinged behind him and he went over to the stove, pulling out a tray of Kaak Warka to cool, sliding another couple trays into place and resetting the timer. 

“So you’re stuck here, all alone.” Nicky said, Joe shot him a look over his shoulder, as he returned to the prep table where Marzipan waited to meet it’s doughy counterpart. “With no one to help you. If only there was a world renowned baker nearby.” 

Joe smirked, narrowing his eyes at Nicky, who just sighed deeply in the doorway. 

“So you are just trying to steal my recipes-” Joe started. 

“I can go home right now Joe,” Nicky twisted, pointing over his shoulder, “it's right there and I’ve recorded the game. I could watch it with a beer.” 

Joe gasped in fake shock. 

“Ask me, you know you want to.” Nicky said. 

And Joe did, he desperately wanted to. 

“Would you mind helping me for a bit?” Joe said, gesturing towards the ingredients ready to be molded into Baklawa. 

“Not at all,” Nicky said, crossing the threshold and shrugging off his rain jacket. “All that stands between you and the universe’s ire these days seems to be me.” 

“That’s a cruel thing to say while you’re taking off your shirt.” Joe said, watching Nicky unbutton his nice white shirt and hang it next to the raincoat. He was wearing a short sleeved undershirt because as incredibly sexy as he was, he was also secretly an old man in all regards. 

“You love it when I’m cruel,” Nicky said, pulling on one of the clean aprons that hung, ready to be used. _Joe’s_ sat over his heart in yellow embroidery floss. He looked down at the ingredients, “What am I doing?” 

“Grab the recipe book up there, you’re going to be making the filo dough and the fillings for the Baklawa.” 

Nicky held the book in his hands, arching an eyebrow up at him, “Baklawa? Kaak Warka?” 

“I also made these little individually sized Khobzet Fekia,” Joe held out his hands in a small circle, “the bride wanted a few offerings. There’s also a cake, but that one is boring. Almond and cinnamon.” 

“Nothing you make is boring.” Nicky said, flipping through the recipe book. Joe wanted to reach across the prep table and pull him into a kiss but that seemed to be a bad idea. 

“Similar to your filo recipe?” Joe asked, shaping the small delicate cookies. He wasn’t sure if he was hoping that Nicky would start arguing with him or not. They’d only recently come to a “agree to disagree” stance on how to fold puff pastry. Joe had never argued with someone about pastry while he was in the process of getting opened up by them, it’d been an odd way to keep from coming too fast and he found that he really liked it. 

“The cornstarch is interesting,” Nicky said, rearranging the bowls in front of him and starting the process of bringing together the dough, “usually I just pray that they don’t stick together. Does it change the taste?” 

“Not when I do it, I have a light touch with it,” he waited a beat and decided that what Booker didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, “Booker on the other hand…” 

The corner of Nicky’s mouth lifted, “oh Booker.” 

“I tell him to skip that step usually.” Joe tilted his head, “don’t use it tonight. I like to skip the cheats when I’m doing it for a wedding.” 

“I won’t take it personally,” Nicky said, the dough already coming together under his hands, “I’ll be your sous-patissier and not question your decisions.” 

“I do like it when you’re under me,” Joe said, shaping flowers for the Kaak Warka. He caught Nicky’s skin turning mottled red across the bridge of his nose. 

“Shut up,” he said with no heat.

# 

If it wasn’t for the fact that Nicky had his own wildly successful bakery, Joe would’ve used every tactic in the book to poach him. Nicky didn’t only clean up after himself, he cleaned up after Joe. He didn’t need several explanations on what to do and how to do it. He stretched filo dough while managing to keep a conversation going. The last part he did fairly often. Joe felt like they’d started a conversation a month ago and it hadn’t quite stopped yet.

The headache he’d been courting disappeared, as Nicky distracted him from the pitter patter of rain. He’d put on a spotify playlist with all new artists with retro vibes - both to fit his requirement of interesting new music, and Nicky’s requirement that everything sound like it’s from the 70s - which calmed him more than the music he’d been trying to listen to earlier. The work went faster as well, all the Kaak Warka was cooling away as he patterned and prepared the baklawa.

Nicky leaned against the counter, watching the geometric patterns form under Joe’s deft hands. It’d only been a month since the tables had been turned, and he’d been watching Nicky shape sfogliatelle like it didn’t make thousands of culinary students cry every year. He normally didn’t like to be watched while he worked, but he found that he loved having Nicky’s eyes on him more every day. 

Nicky didn’t ask questions, instead carrying on with the story he’d been telling about his night, “- then it turns out that her brother put the wrong year on the cake anyways. She’s turning twenty-six not twenty-seven-”

“Wait,” Joe paused, studying the baklawa and spinning it slightly to continue cutting, “Nile is only Twenty-six?” 

Nicky glanced up, “yes?” 

“The way you talk about her I thought she was twenty-one at most. I mean Nicky, you’re the almost same distance in age from her as you are from me,” Joe said, sliding the baklawas next to each other to check the patterns on both of them. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nicky said, standing up to grab bowls and bring them over to the sink. 

“I’m three years older than you.” Joe pointed out, “I dont go on about your young taste in music all - well.” 

Nicky looked over his shoulder, “what?” 

“Maybe it’s just that you’re incredibly old at heart. You did tell me last week that Billy Joel was after your time. You’re thirty. You do know you’re thirty right?” Joe did quick math in his head, “ _The Stranger_ came out thirteen years before you were born.” 

“I have no problems with _The Stranger._ ” 

“I’m dating a grandpa, that's what this is,” Joe took the Baklawas and put them both into the oven, making sure they were on the same level so they’d bake at the same rate. He turned around to find Nicky staring at him, his eyes doing that thing they did right before Joe found himself on his back and panting. “What?” 

“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” Nicky turned back to the sink. Joe got halfway through wiping down the table when he realized he’d said the word both of them had been dancing around. 

He stepped around the table, doing something he’d never in a million years do to Booker. He wrapped his arms around Nicky’s waist, pulling him against his chest. 

“Although,” Joe said, switching into Italian, pressing a kiss to a fading hickey on Nicky’s neck, “I don’t know if dating is the right word -” he squeezed Nicky tighter when Nicky froze “- as we can’t seem to get out of your bed long enough to do anything traditionally considered dating.” 

Nicky held the edge of the sink, twisting slightly in Joe’s arms to look at him, “are you asking me on a date?” 

“At the very least let me have you over to mine for dinner.” Joe kissed him, just a gentle press of the lips that thrilled him to his very toes, “I’d very much like to cook for you.” 

Nicky wrapped his arms around Joe’s neck, taking the kiss from sweet and innocent to just a tiny bit more filthy. “Is that all we’d do at your apartment? Have dinner?” 

“Are you trying to seduce me?” Joe asked, arching an eyebrow, “is that why you rolled up your sleeves while kneading the dough?”

“I think you’re trying to seduce me,” Nicky smoothed his hand down Joe’s back, starting at his shoulder blade and ending just shy of Joe’s jeans, curling his hands around the apron strings, “This shirt is way too tight to be wearing while in a boiling hot room.” 

“The baklawa has to be in the oven for an hour -” Joe said, tilting his head towards his office. 

“An hour isn’t enough time for what I want to do to you.” Nicky said cutting him off before pulling him into another kiss, this one all tongues and nipping teeth. Joe was going to die in that kitchen. Under Nicky’s careful hands. Until Nicky was nudging Joe away and Joe knew that it wasn’t going to be the heat that ended him but the cruel cold. “Now go away let me do the dishes.” 

“Evil incarnate,” Joe muttered.

“That you’re _dating_ ” Nicky said, switching to Arabic because he was, deep down, extremely petty.

“Apparently,” Joe said. Turning his grin towards the oven.

#

Joe had designed his bakery to appeal to the instagram crowd. Green plants and herbs grew against a white tiled wall. In the spring the outdoor seating area was packed with small groups of friends drinking mimosas and eating his danishes. The tables were brushed with gold paint on the legs, with a white marble top. The chairs were admittedly uncomfortable. But there was a long single bench along one wall that Joe had put in specifically for naps.

He sat down on the bench, nudging aside a table with his foot as he stretched out an arm across the back of it, watching Nicky analyze his espresso machine. 

“You can probably use that demon, can't you?” Joe asked. 

“What's the sense in buying something if you can’t use it?” 

“That’s why I hired Booker.” Joe gestured around the room, “he talks to customers and makes them lattes, and cortados. Or whatever else that thing can do.” 

Nicky gave him a look, one that said _are you for real?_ before he moved on to study the artisanal sodas next to the cokes. 

“Hey I wanted to be a baker, not a barista. Booker wants to be a barista, not a baker. It works.” Joe gestured towards the display, “help yourself.” 

“Lavender soda?” Nicky said, picking it up and twisting the label around to show him, “really?”

“I have it on good authority that you make lavender cakes,” Joe said, trying to sound flirtatious even when he could feel the sweat on his back making his shirt cling to the back of the bench. 

“It’s happened before and it’ll happen again.” Nicky took a sip, and looked closely at the label, “if eating a meal at your apartment is dating, then what is it when I feed you at my house?” 

Nicky did feed him a lot, Joe only managed to order delivery for Nicky a few times and usually it was because Nicky was too weak in the knees to stand at the stove. Joe watched a bead of sweat roll down Nicky’s throat as he tipped his head back to take a drink. “I figured needing to feed anyone who came into your house was an Italian thing.” 

“Ah, but you said you wanted to cook for me, I cook for you.” Nicky stayed by the sodas, leaning against the machine as it hummed to keep the contents cold. 

“You happen to be cooking sometimes when I show up to sweep you off your feet,” Joe specified. 

“Yesterday, when you showed up, and I had homemade spinach and mozzarella ravioli cooking in a nice sauce with chilled white wine, you just assumed that was just what a Thursday night looks like in my house?” 

Maybe Nicky should’ve been a lawyer, because Joe felt cornered and he didn’t realize it was happening. He felt like _yes_ wasn’t the right answer. “That was homemade?” 

“What's the point of a pasta maker if you’re not going to use it?”

“Hmm, still wasn’t a date.” Joe said, shaking his head, “you didn’t ask me over. I invited myself up when I hadn’t seen you all day.” 

“Then this morning,” Nicky said, taking a step closer. Joe reached out for his hand automatically, wanting to pull him in closer. “When I asked you to stay so I could make you breakfast…” 

“I have a feeling I know where this is going,” Joe said, settling his arms around Nicky’s waist as Nicky’s hands went to Joe’s hair, knocking the cap back slightly as Joe tilted his head back.

“Did you think that most mornings I get up and make spinach and eggs on toast for myself?” Nicky’s cold soda rested against Joe’s back, sending a shiver up his spine. 

“Leftover spinach?” Joe said. Nicky laughed, letting out a little snort. “Still no, not a date. A beautiful breakfast falls into good host territory.” 

“Hmm, to clarify;” Nicky took a step back, or tried to. Joe had been a victim of this kind of teasing before. Joe kept his hands on Nicky’s waist, and smiled up at him, “for it to count as a date I have to ask you over, and cook you food, and be a good host?” 

“Being a good host is irrelevant,” Joe tried to look serious as he elaborated, but he knew that his eyes were crinkling, “it’s mostly the intentionality of it.” 

“If I’m at the store, thinking _oh carbonara would be good, but Joe doesn’t eat pork_ so I get mozzarella and spinach instead -” 

Joe tightened his arms, pulling Nicky to him. Nicky let himself be drawn into a kiss, one where their smiles made it just a bit awkward but neither of them minded. 

“You want carbonara, baby? I’ll get you carbonara. We can go right now,” Joe said as they pulled apart. 

“I want clear and defined parameters so I can ask you out on a date,” Nicky said, kissing him again, “and none of the restaurants in this city make carbonara right.” 

“Have you been courting me with food this whole time?” Joe squeezed tighter, and Nicky put his knees on the bench between Joe’s legs, bending over as Joe leaned back, kissing as if they didn’t have a care in the world or a Baklawa in the oven. 

“If it was just sex I would’ve used store bought,” Nicky muttered against his lips. Swallowing Joe’s laugh with another kiss. 

Too soon the timer went off. Joe groaned against Nicky and Nicky gave him space to stand up. 

“Enjoy your soda, I’ll be right back.” 

Joe pulled the last of the Baklawa out of the oven, setting it on the rack to cool. He drizzled the syrup over it in precise motions, making sure that it was evenly saturated. His hat fell off his head, knocked askew by Nicky’s hands. He picked it up and pulled it back on, not wanting to show off what he was sure was spectacular hat hair. 

He grabbed a plastic tray and a few paper doilies off the shelf, and stepped into the refrigerator. Most of the Kaak Warka and Khobzet Fekia had been packaged to keep it from drying out overnight but there were a few extras that hadn’t fit. He had leftover Baklawa from what he sold in the mornings. He arranged them on the tray, two of each on the tray with Baklawa on the doilies. 

“Alright,” He said, pushing through the swinging doors to his dark front room. The only light came from the soda display and a fluorescent _Joe’s_ behind the counter. It cast the room in a nice warm light, making Nicky’s smile almost impossible to see. 

“So you are seducing me,” Nicky said, sliding on the bench to behind one of the tables, setting down his lavender soda. 

“Say what you will. These aren’t experimental flavors. The bride wanted to be traditional. The Baklawa I made to sell here so it does have a touch of cornstarch in it,” he found himself wanting to explain away all the flavors in case Nicky didn’t like them. He’d given Nicky things to eat before, things he created in Michelin rated restaurants and bakeries - but these recipes were virtually unchanged from what his grandmother had given him. They were the things that were almost as big of a part of him as the hair on his head and the nails on his fingers. 

“I’ve been waiting for this.” Nicky looked down at the tray, “what should I start with?” 

“Let’s start with the Kaak Warka,” that recipe he had fiddled with, ever so slightly. He created the small little flowers that sat just inside the circle. He wouldn’t take it as personally if Nicky hated it - although he’d still have to break up with him. 

Nicky got points for immediately picking up the tiny donut shaped cookie, lifting it to tap against Joe’s as they’d done with quite a few pastries since their first night together. Joe bit into it, it tasted like his youth, as if he could close his eyes and smell the salt water of the sea down the hill from his grandmother’s house. 

But he kept his eyes open, focused on Nicky’s reaction. Nicky’s jawline jumped as he chewed, he looked up at Joe, their eyes meeting. 

“This is delicious,” He said, as if he was pointing out the tables were marble. 

“Yeah?” Joe said, in turn as if thousands of people hadn’t complimented his Kaak Warka before. 

“The rosewater - it’s just enough, not too much not too little, and the dough splices the sweetness of the marzipan with that hint of almonds,” Nicky said, and did something Joe had never seen before. He popped the rest of the Kaak Warka in his mouth in one big bite. “Absolutely delicious.” 

Nicky never had Khobzet Fekia before, but managed to identify all the ingredients while asking about the traditions behind it. He complimented the flower design on the top ( _actually it matches the cake I made for them_ Joe said, and Nicky said _you’re such an artist, habibi_ ) before moving on to the Baklawa. He let out a moan of delight. 

“Whenever I’ve tried to make Baklawa I can never get the balance of Orange Blossom just right. Here it’s perfect and I can see what you mean about the cornstarch -”

“You’ve made Baklawa?” Joe asked, pointing at this dish, “this kind?” 

“Well, I don’t think I made it as good,” Nicky studied it for a moment, “I was trying to figure out which recipe I wanted to go with when you moved in so I didn’t bother and I stuck with some of the other recipes I had. Rosewater and Orange Blossom can be so tricky you know?” 

“Nicky,” Joe said, “If I dont kiss you right now I might die.”

“You can’t give me amazingly good Baklawa and also expect me to put it down,” Nicky said, smiling and leaning just close enough that Joe could cup the sides of his neck. 

“You don’t have to put it down, think of this as a palette cleanser,” Joe said, pulling Nicky across the table. He tasted like hazelnuts and pistachios - with just enough orange blossom to do the trick.

#

Joe didn’t give in to Nicky’s pleas for more Kaak Warka, but promised to try out some of his experimental flavors on him. As they finished cleaning the kitchen Nicky ran his attempts at Baklawa past Joe, wondering aloud where he went wrong. Joe had to walk the thin line of protecting his trade secrets and not throwing Nicky on the prep table to have him right there.

Exhaustion stayed his hand. He had to conserve his energy to get back across town. Afterall that had been the plan this morning. Nicky was to go to Nile’s birthday dinner, and Joe to watch the game and maybe sleep in his own bed for the first time in a week. He could let this baking foreplay spin out into another night. 

Or so he thought. 

When he turned around from locking his door, he found Nicky standing across the alley at the bottom of his stairs. When Joe just stared at him a moment, wondering what was a non-creepy way to ask for a good night kiss, Nicky gestured up the stairs. 

“Come on,” Nicky said, holding up his hands at whatever passed across Joe’s face, most likely confusion, “just to sleep. It’s the middle of the night and you’re dead on your feet.” 

An odd mix of excitement and relief shot through him, but he wasn’t relieved Nicky was giving him an out, “Oh you think that just because I’ve been baking for sixteen straight hours that I can’t rock your world?” 

“Joe,” Nicky said it with adoration, and just a hint of exasperation, “I’m not trying to bait you into fucking me.” 

“No, no of course not,” Joe said, crossing the alley. The rain had stopped at some point in the last few hours, but the puddles were still there. He carefully avoided them, “what you’re saying is that I can’t do it.” 

“I never said you couldn’t,” Nicky walked backwards up the stairs, watching Joe prowl towards him. His white shirt was bunched in his hand, brushing against the soaked railing as he kept himself from falling backwards. 

“You implied.” Joe accused, as they got on the landing. 

“You’ve had a long _hard_ day.” Nicky said, grinning now, “I totally understand if you just want to fall asleep, in my bed, with me.” 

“Open the door Nicky,” Joe said, trying not to laugh, “I’ll show you what I can do after a long hard day.” 

Nicky turned to open the door, and Joe wrapped his arms around his waist, bending his head to Nicky’s neck. He tasted like salty sweat and just a bit of escaped powdered sugar. Nicky bit back a moan and shoved open the door, letting them both tumble in. 

He shut the door behind Joe, and in a smooth movement cupped Joe’s neck with his hands, tugging him down for another kiss. The brim of Joe’s hat buckled upwards, and Nicky tried to take it off him, but Joe pulled away, wrapping his hands around Nicky’s waist to walk him backwards. 

It didn’t take long before they were in Nicky’s small bedroom. Joe walked Nicky backwards until the back of his knees hit his usually pristine bed. The sheets and covers were still rumpled from that morning, when Joe had fucked into Nicky slow and sweet as the sun rose behind them. Since Joe always tried to be helpful, he lightly pushed Nicky back onto the twisted sheets. 

Hours of flirting and frustration, mixed with an incoming and avoidable tidal wave of exhaustion (afterall, he was no longer thirty) meant that this wasn’t going to be slow, but it was definitely going to be good. 

Joe dropped on the bed on top of Nicky. His knees between Nicky’s thighs and his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of Nicky’s shoulders. Nicky took his window of opportunity and stole Joe’s hat, pulling it over his messy brown hair. With a victorious smirk he pulled Joe down by his sweat soaked shirt on top of him. 

They tried to help each other take off their clothes, Nicky belligerently keeping the hat on at an angle as he tossed his syrup stained undershirt across the room. Joe’s attempts to steal back his hat was thwarted by Nicky bucking upwards, reminding him how much fabric was still between them. 

Getting rid of their pants took focus and concentration, that neither of them could gather. They distracted themselves with kisses and wandering hands curling around hips and arms. Finally, when Joe pulled away to root around in Nicky’s bedside table for the lube they both kicked off their pants.

“Joe, it’s on the floor,” Nicky said, adjusting the hat. 

Joe looked under the bed and sure enough the tube was there. Nicky took the opportunity to get revenge, smacking Joe’s ass and then smoothing his hand down Joe’s thigh. 

“Come back, you’re too far away,” Nicky said, because he was a _bastard_. Joe scrambled back between Nicky’s legs, bending down to kiss his clavicle, his chest. “No time Joe, just fuck me.” 

“Pushy,” Joe shot back. 

“Tease. You’ve been walking around in a shirt that sticks to you for hours,” Nicky said, stroking a possessive hand down Joe’s chest, and over his cock. Joe thrust into his hand, already aching for him. 

“Me?” Joe said, incredulously, letting Nicky take the lube out of his hands so Joe could focus on keeping his hands curled around where tantalizing lines formed by Nicky’s hips. “You’re the asshole complimenting my baking with your stupid arms.” 

“I want to try your Bey Almond Bak-” Nicky started, and Joe crushed their mouths together, stopping him from finishing that sentence. Nicky tried to squirt lube on Joe’s cock but instead got Joe’s abdomen, he pushed Joe away and tried again, “if not that then maybe your Ghraiba -” 

“Nicky! Are you trying to ruin me? I can’t have a boner when I’m making Ghraiba Homs and if you talk about it right now-” Joe cut himself off with a groan, Nicky’s hands finding their target and smothering lube on his cock. 

“If you need me to bring you down I can talk about puff pastry,” Nicky said, laughing as Joe kissed him again. Joe took the lube from him and opened it over his palm, but Nicky nudged his hand away, “no, don’t bother I’m good.” 

“You’re good?” Joe asked, trailing a finger down and back, “from this morning?” 

“No, I want to feel you tomorrow,” Nicky brought his hands up to cup Joe’s neck, his favorite way to signal for more kissing and less talking. Who was Joe to deny him? Nicky’s hand was tacky with lube, smearing it into the sweat and flour on the back of Joe’s neck. 

“You sure?” Joe asked, Nicky brought his legs up, his knees to either side of Joe’s ribcage. “Alright, you asked for it.” 

Nicky was tight, and impossibly hot. Even with them skipping a few foreplay steps they usually lounged around on Joe still wasn’t going to last long. Joe’s forehead hit the rim of the cap, knocking it further askew on Nicky’s head until he looked like a fratty douchebag dining out on his father’s dime. Creating some very mixed reactions in Joe’s gut. He took the hat back, making sure the cap was pointing backwards as he put it on his head so it wouldn’t get in the way. 

He pushed in slow, bracing on his forearms as Nicky’s hands skittered wherever he wanted. He could have all of Joe, Joe was fairly certain he had told him that in multiple languages several nights before. He pulled out just as slow, waiting for any sign that Nicky was in any sort of pain. 

Nicky looked about as far from pain as possible, his jaw slightly agape as he breathed with Joe. He smirked, like the asshole he was, and said, “I thought you said you were going to rock my world.” 

“Aren’t I?” Joe asked, pushing back in as slow as he could handle, Nicky let out a long low groan before glaring up at him. 

“This is a slow jam at best.” 

Joe snapped his hips at that, pushing in deep and hard. Nicky let out a pinched moan, before tugging Joe back into a kiss. Joe shifted Nicky’s hips using the back of his thighs, tilting the angle ever so slightly. He picked up the pace, making sure to keep the moans rolling out of Nicky’s mouth. 

Joe knew when he nailed Nicky’s prostate when he shifted and Nicky let out a groan, pulling away from Joe’s lips to say a bitten off exclamation in Italian. Once he found the spot, Joe made sure to drag his cock against it on every thrust. Feeling Nicky clutch at his chest and shoulders for purchase. 

Joe’s hand snaked between them, wrapping around Nicky’s cock. He felt bad for all the times he’d called him small before they started sleeping together. But he should’ve known from how Nicky had just ignored that insult that the opposite was true. 

“Hey Nicky?” Joe found the ability to ask, the heat building up in his spine and his thighs as a delicious pressure began to build. 

“Yeah?” He asked, his eyes glittering in the moonlight as he let out another exclamation. 

“You’re going to come first,” Joe informed him, because Nicky somehow hated and loved whenever Joe did that. 

“You ass-” Nicky started to say, but Joe squeezed his hand ever so slightly, pressing his thumb under Nicky’s cockhead and stroking down. Nicky groaned and threw back his head, providing Joe with just enough real estate to suck the pale skin of his throat. 

Joe tried to remember the puff pastry argument, just to keep him from making a liar of himself, thrusting into Nicky as hard as he could manage when Nicky’s hands were wrapped around the back of his thighs and pulling him in closer, lube smearing down his leg. 

He was close, almost painfully so, he sped his hand up, knowing that the offset between his thrusts and his hand would drive Nicky over the ledge. 

It did, Nicky’s back bowed and his hands clenched on Joe’s sides, he went silent as he came, Joe fucking him through it as spurts of cum landed on his abs and chest. Joe let go of his dick, just to grab his butt instead and pull him down tight for one last thrust. 

Spent, exhausted, and now with black spots crackling behind his eyes, Joe collapsed on top of Nicky. 

Nicky huffed, and pulled off Joe’s hat so he could sink one hand in Joe’s hair. They tried to find their breath together, Joe, putting some of his weight on his arm. 

“I wasn’t lying you know,” Nicky said, pressing a kiss into Joe’s temple. “You could’ve just slept over if you weren’t feeling it.” 

Joe propped himself up onto his forearms, “I don’t know what part of that indicated at all that I wasn’t feeling it.” 

“Hmm,” Nicky tilted his head up, kissing Joe innocently as if he hadn’t just wasted half a bottle of lube on him, “I know.” 

“Come on,” Joe said, standing up and dragging Nicky to his feet. “Let’s go shower.” 

“Just one thing,” Nicky said. 

“What?” Joe asked, grabbing the lube from the sheets and closing the lid before setting it on the bedside table. 

“I’m keeping your hat,” Nicky said, taking the item in question and tossing it into the closet. He strode past Joe into the bathroom. 

Joe followed, smirking, “Keep it, I’ve got others.”

Epilogue

“Nicky,” Joe said into Nicky’s spine, sleep about to overtake them as they were bundled up in clean sheets. He smelled like lavender soap and something essentially _Nicky_ underneath it.

“Yeah Joe?” Nicky muttered, shifting his face into his own arm, threading the fingers on his other hand with Joe’s. 

“You thought I was going home tonight. Does that mean I’ll see what you actually eat for breakfast tomorrow?” 

Nicky sighed, deep and tired, “oatmeal Joe, it’s going to be oatmeal.” 

Joe hummed, rubbing his nose against Nicky’s neck, “I can work with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> booopppp
> 
> Lots of research into baking for this one but it's really hard to figure out what kind of strong baking opinions they'd have without watching a lottttt of GBBO so I guess I should go do that. I dont think I've ever had most of the things referenced in this story or the previous one which makes me think I need to spend more time in bakeries. I have had the greek cousin to baklawa, and the indian cousin to Ghraiba Homs so thats something? 
> 
> As always let me know if I've made any errors :D 
> 
> The title of the series is a take on "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" which is a Billy Joel song from the album "The Stranger" released in 1977 (so presumably if Nicky is thirty he was born in 89 or 90 depending)


End file.
